


le francais

by alphaqueer



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:51:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphaqueer/pseuds/alphaqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles needs a French tutor.<br/>Guess who happens to be fluent ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	le francais

Why should he care about high school drama now? When he became more and more aware of what being a Hale entailed – more importantly, what was involved when it came to being in a pack – the notion of going to college wistfully passed by without a mourning period for Derek. After high school, there was but Beacon Hills to look forward to. Then the fire happened and relinquished as he was from the ties that had bound him to that town, he was still thrust into maturity beyond his years within the space of a few weeks. Academics, college, grades – it all seemed so fruitless. He thought it impossible to cross a canyon as dark and deep as loss with the burden of test scores and all-nighters as well and so he forgone them. So why should he care about high school drama now? Moreover, when it wasn’t even his drama – it was Stiles’.

He padded into the domestic hazard Derek called a home with a fabricated calmness. The anxiousness was palpable though, so minutes into a conversation about full moon prep, Derek has to furrow his brow, sigh and raise a hand, pausing Stiles’.

“What are you nervous about?”

Stiles regards him curiously, almost condescendingly. “There’s a full moon coming? It’s a pretty big reason to worry.”

“No. You never worry about wolf stuff anymore. So what is it really?” Stiles toys with the cuffs of his hoodie, dropping his gaze to his hands. It seems to take an hour for a reply.

“It’s just school stuff; we have bigger problems than my issues at school.” He starts chewing his lip. He hates this about Stiles – the way he deflects everything related to him and chooses to focus on anything else. He dances around the topic of self but never explores it ever with anyone. Not that Derek would be the one to explore it with, but the scent of impatience, worry and stress had been off Stiles thickly for weeks now and it’s all Derek can do to stifle the urge to drag him to a shower.

“Tell me.”

“I really don’t want to-“

“Tell me. Or I’ll force it out of you.” There’s no menace in his voice but he knows a neatly-worded threat can be a great incentive. Stiles’ body relaxes, he leans back into the chair and his hands fall from each other.

“I’m failing French. Which is really important to me because languages are the one thing I’m really bad at and I need to get better at, because Allison turned to Lydia for help when it could’ve been me. I mean, I’m a great English student, because hey, who’s more of a wordsmith then me, right? History is just memorising stuff, so is science, but French is like … improv. And if ever a time in my life did I need to add “good at improvisation” to my skillset, it’s now, when I’ve got a werewolf friend and know another werewolf, both being hunted weekly by a family of hunters. So yeah, I kind of hate how badly I’m failing that class and it’s really affecting my concentration, more than normal.”

“I know French.” Derek’s eyes are wide and his eyebrow is cocked but he looks sincere. It’s probably the most honest Stiles has ever seen him. As for Derek, behind the statement is a honest offer, because the sooner Stiles stops worrying, the sooner the atmosphere surrounding him becomes less stifling.

“Really? I don’t really picture you as the romantic linguist. You barely speak five full sentences a day in English alone.”

“ _Il y a plein de choses que tu connais pas de moi._ ” Derek says with a smooth accent that catches Stiles off guard, making his mouth drop open a touch and his eyes go the tiniest bit lazy.

“What did you just say?”

“I said, do you want my help or not?”

It takes a minute for Stiles to deliberate the choices before him but as a grin spreads over his face, it’s clear the answer is yes.

“So you’re going to tutor me?” Derek sighs, regretting it already.

*

Stiles is used to Derek appearing in his bedroom. It seldom catches him off guard, even when he’s clandestine and silent or uninvited. But Derek never came before bearing presents.

“I already have a textbook.” Stiles protests as he catches a large, bright tome thrown in his direction. Derek’s not one for subtlety. He glowers at Stiles’ reaction to this favour.

“This one’s better. It’s the same one I used.” Derek walks to the bed and sits down, his leer never erring. Stiles doesn’t move from his desk chair, fidgeting with the book. “So what level would you say you’re at?”

“Bonjour?”

Derek decides to take his jacket off and toss it onto the bed. It’s going to be a long night.

They argue a half hour into the session and Derek leaves through the window, leaving his jacket. Stiles remembers the look on Derek’s face when he saw the jacket on the bed but was too far invested into making a statement by leaving that he couldn’t go back for it. The frustration was enough to make Stiles’ week.

But Derek returns the next night, not surprising Stiles as he steps into his room, fresh out of the shower. The sight of Derek with a legal pad and a pen in his lap, ready to study, strikes Stiles as humorous, but then he realises what it actually is and the thought takes him aback: it’s adorable.

*

He’s alone with the book Derek gave him and it dawns on him that Derek was being literal – it isn’t just the same edition, it’s the same copy. Derek’s scrawling is all over it, underlining a verb or drafting a phrase in the margins. Stiles spends his free period the next day hypnotised by the pages, trying to decipher the little notes Derek had made once upon a time. Flicking through, the scribblings stop and Stiles halts, upset. He carries on past the unblemished pages, void of personality, until he finds a flash of red ink near the end of the book. It’s just a few lines of drafting and although it isn’t simple and he doesn’t know that much, he’s no idiot. He more or less translates the final line with ease, and it kind of crushes him:

 __ ~~Je les manques~~  
 ~~Ils me manques~~  
Ils me manquent.


End file.
